


wanna see what's under that attitude

by secretsarenotforfree



Category: Hart of Dixie
Genre: F/M, More of Zoe In Wade's Shirts, Revenge Gone Backfired, shirts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsarenotforfree/pseuds/secretsarenotforfree
Summary: He could call her a thief if she wanted, and Zoe would shoot back that she was holding  it hostage until he learned some sort of communal washer dryer tenant values. She couldn’t wait.Except, uh.She did.
Relationships: Zoe Hart/Wade Kinsella
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	wanna see what's under that attitude

**Author's Note:**

> blame this absolutely entirely on me ordering a rammer jammer t shirt and since it came in the mail i've been obsessed. why do i love it so much. i literally have no clue. but it birthed my fic, and i guess zoe wearing wades stuff is my kink and here we are. 
> 
> anyways this is shorter than i usually prefer, but we're gonna, uh. accept it! it's somewhere between the sweetie pie dance and the snow episode where she says judson wasn't her true loovveee
> 
> title from 'i think he knows' by taylor swift

Okay so she doesn’t know  _ why  _ she did it.

She knows that she’s for certain still pissed at him because, well, she is. How freaking dare he start up a town bet about her and the veterinarian from the next town over, how  _ dare  _ he wage psychological warfare against her so that he would win it and how  _ DARE,  _ most importantly, he do it with that stupid look on his face. That stupid, sparkling, hazel eyed slanted grin look on his face that she and he both knew that no kiss she’d shared with Judson had held a candle to that one in the front seat of his stupid, stupid car.

His stupid, stupid, Chevy with memories that Zoe, despite herself, wished hadn’t been quite as tumult and wine soaked so she could figure out if it was actually as good as she’d remembered or it had just been the alcohol and chaos talking. If his burning hand molding tight to her waist and ass had been as talented as she’d thought, if his mouth still tasted as heated and ravenous and skilled on her own. 

Not that any of it mattered.

Because it didn’t.

She was a challenge to him, an annoying neighbor that he’d bed and fled if she ever gave him the chance, and Zoe shouldn’t be wasting any thoughts on him  _ at all _ . Her Ph. D. trained mind had gone through too many years of schooling to be dwelling on a guy like him. Not that it should be thinking about George either, to be honest, with his marrying Lemon and all, but. Still.

Plus, Zoe’s still furious at him. Silent treatment is all he deserves, because Judson could’ve been a  _ real option  _ in a town small enough to have precious few. And Zoe’s thinking about all this, and its ten PM at night, and she’s doing her laundry in Lavon’s near industrial sized washer and dryer (because, and she quotes from Lavon himself, he was an “Industrial Sized man”), and Wade left his clothes in the dryer.  _ Again _ . She supposes she should thank her lucky stars that was at least his clean stuff that she was confronted with, but it sucks to be his clothes, because Zoe’s there. And she’s still bitter, displaced or not. And before she knows what she’s doing she’s surged to her feet and starts rifling through the pile she’d unceremoniously dumped on the laundry floor to put her own things in.

She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but it’s about what she expected. A few rogue tank tops, some sets of blue jeans Zoe’s got no doubt have been through absolute hell and back, and an absolute rainbow minefield of plaid. And a bunch of socks that seem to have left their partners in the war or something.

Nothing snags at her until her small fingers close around fabric so worn its near butter smooth. Zoe crouches, the pads of her bare feet a little cold against the tile, and fishes it the rest of the way out - and, of course. It’s a  _ Rammer Jammer  _ t-shirt, the crab nearly as goofy as the owner of the garment and red lettering becoming as familiar to her as the rest of the spots in town. 

The dryer beeps, its load of delicates done, and Zoe gets her basket and tumbles it all in from the door. Tucks the foreign dark grey carefully under her lace and silks and patterns and carts it back to the carriage house with a self satisfied smile the whole rubber boots trudge back.  _ Ha.  _ Now there was nothing to do but wait, because if she’d learned anything, Wade Kinsella was completely incapable of letting go any opportunity to needle her about, basically, anything under the sun.

He could call her a thief if she wanted, and Zoe would shoot back that she was holding it hostage until he learned some sort of communal washer dryer tenant values. She couldn’t  _ wait. _

Except, uh.

She did.

Zoe waited, the metaphorical shoe dangling on a hook at the back of her mind, at dinners at the Rammer Jammer and breakfasts at Lavons and general verbal sparrage all over town, but it never came up, not once. Wade calls her Doc and pours her wine and teases her about any and everything he can think of, but never about a shirt that used to be his. 

She remembers it, still half out of her mind with tiredness after that long drive with Brick, when she plunges her hand in the back of the drawer for her pajama top and finds it instead. Still big, still a trophy of sorts, and still just a shirt. Zoe pulls off her thick tights and her top and, just for fun, tugs it over her head. Blinks heavy eyes once she’s free of the neckline and slides arms into short sleeves that fall almost to her elbows. 

God, she had good revenge taste. If she was him, she wouldn’t want someone to steal this shirt. If she was him, she would...what was Zoe talking about again? She was too tired, and now to comfy, to really think. She pulls as many curtains closed as she can before collapsing into bed and sleeps like the absolute dead. 

The next morning, Zoe swears to herself it’s a one time thing. She  _ likes  _ having cute sleep sets in baby blue and warm pinks, tank tops and buttons and things made exclusively for sleeping in. She doesn’t need a ratty t-shirt with a neckline a little puckered because it was used to fighting against defined pectorals and perfectly architectured lines of a collarbone. She’s got so many better options than something lacking a matching pair of bottoms and worn lettering that is fascinatingly fun to draw her fingers across when she’s listening to the news and relaxing in bed with a cup of wine.

She doesn’t. She swears.

Except she does, and it’s been long enough that Zoe had sort of forgotten that it was stolen in the first place. Or she does, until the morning that its  _ Wade  _ that blows the fusebox in the middle of a too hot night and she’s more than willing to stomp to her front door to yell at him about it.

“Do you know how hard it is to get the fan to blow a stream of air  _ right where you want it,  _ Wade? Huh? Do you?” Zoe’s waving rather wildly and she knows that her hair has looked better, thrown in the messiest braid ever to try and reduce its weighed hold on neck, but she’s irate. He’s standing at the base of her steps, shirtless, of course, in those damn jorts. Wiping his hands on a rag and all furrowed brown and golden lashes that have the audacity to shine even in the moonlight.

“In case you’ve forgotten Doc, I was born and raised here. I know exactly how hard it is. Maybe,” he suggests helpfully, “you should just sleep in the nude.” 

Even through the mesh of her screendoor Zoe can see his stupid smirk. “Or, maybe  _ you  _ should, and Burt Reynolds will get a lizard nose full of rotten meat and make my life easier once and for all.”

“Oooo, burn.” Wade laughs at her, too cheerful for the time of night it was. “Anyhow, I fixed it. You should be good for the rest of the night, I’m goin’ to sleep too.” He edges a bit closer, squinting eyes Zoe knows painfully well to be a shade of hazel usually reserved for autumnal fantasies, and the dimples flash once again. “Or, you know what? I’ll go through Lavon’s attic tomorrow and see if he’s got any more electricity effective fans.”

It’s too much of a surface level kind offer for Zoe to trust, and its enough to get her to frown and open the screen a bit. “Why?”

He shrugs, tucks the rag in his back pocket, gives her another once over with his eyes that takes too long to decipher. “Who am I to tell you what’s comfortable to sleep in? Night, Doc.” Wade strides back to his side of the pond, his whistles carrying on the oppressively humid air, and Zoe steps back inside. Wonders what exactly cause his swift turn of mind, racking her brain before sleep overtakes her once more.

It’s not until the next morning, when there’s a smaller, but admittedly faster, fan waiting on her porch that Zoe catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and realizes the whole time she’d been yelling at him the night before, she’d been wearing The Shirt. The thefted one that had hung on that hook so long at the back of her mind she’d forgotten it was supposed to fall. She has to meet Lavon for this MOTY nonsense that he has yet to explain to her, so Zoe doesn’t really have time to work through it all, but it doesn’t stop a soft blush from suffusing her cheeks. Or, for the record, her teeth pressing into her bottom lip when she takes it off to get in her shower and folds it as carefully as anything she’d taken to Bluebell with her.

Anyways, yeah.

Zoe’s not giving it back.


End file.
